


Chapters

by BluSakura



Category: Princess Tutu
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2015-04-14
Packaged: 2018-02-12 04:00:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2094867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BluSakura/pseuds/BluSakura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of request shortfics. The little moments that keep the darkness at bay. Requests are always accepted. Any prompt, any character.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Double-Date

**Author's Note:**

> For lyriette on tumblr: the main four on a double-date.

"... Why the hell are you looking at me like that?"

Prince Siegfried cleared his throat, reaching up to hide the tiny smirk on his lips. "Like what, Fakir? I don't know what you mean."

"You know what I mean." And it never ceased to throw Fakir off-balance with how utterly observant Myth-Prince Siegfried turned out to be. And the prince's penchant for subtly rubbing it in. Dammit, was this entire outing going to be like this?

The two men were quite a sight to behold, though-both handsome in different ways, casually waiting by the swan-drawn carriage for their ladies, standing dignified and poised in a way only polished dancers could, one in white, the other a deep, dark blue. They seemed above anything petty, Fakir calm and introspective, Prince Siegfried regal and warm.

But if any of the passing servants listened carefully, they'd hear Prince Siegfried's chuckle of amusement and the low grumble from Fakir's throat.

"You've fallen in love. Am I not allowed to feel joy on your behalf?"

Fakir wasn't accustomed to him feeling anything. "More like at my expense."

"Love is a precious thing, Fakir," the prince said, straightening his gold-trimmed tunic. The amusement and mirth dimmed in his golden eyes as his tone turned whimsical. "Tainted or pure, love itself can change the world. Just as it's changed yours. And I cannot think of two people more deserving of such a feeling as you both." He turned to Fakir, his smile gentle. "You two have given us hope. Let me revel in your happiness, as yours is mine."

The harsh lines of Fakir's expression softened. "It's not ... that big of a deal. But thanks." Fakir turned toward the swans of the carriage, stepping forward to brush through the white feathers. Those two girls sure took their sweet time.

"So, when will you two marry?"

When Fakir tripped over his own feet with a startled yelp, Prince Siegfried bit back a very undignified snort.

* * *

"I'd like to ask you something, Ahiru."

The redhead fiddled with the hem of her yellow sundress, turning to Rue with a tiny smile. They strolled through the garden, shoes clopping onto the cobblestone path as they made their way to the designating meeting place: right outside the castle entrance. Their palace within the story was breathtaking, and Ahiru was sure she'd visit as many times as she could in the future. "Mm? Sure! What is it?"

Rue paused in her step, elegantly brushing away a wrinkle on her own white dress. "... How in the world did you choose  _him_?"

Honestly, the princess would never give up her prince for anyone-not even for the young girl who she loved so dearly. However, Ahiru deserved the utmost happiness. Fakir  _owed_  it to her to grant her the ability to become a girl once more. Ahiru should always dance, should always speak, should always laugh and eventually, love someone as Rue loved her prince.

... But  _Fakir_?

Ahiru blinked her round eyes, tilting her head to the side. "How? I dunno. Just sorta happened!"

"You don't owe him anything, you know."

The redhead stopped walking then, scratching the back of her head with a bashful smile. "Oh, it's not like that! I ..." She shook her head, a blush scattering across the bridge of her freckled nose. "It took a long time for me to really ... well, I don't know exactly how it started. But he gives me strength! I like the way I feel when I'm around him. And sometimes ..."

"Sometimes?"

Ahiru lifted her gaze, her smile wide and joyful, the intense blush gracing her with a sweet, happy glow. "Sometimes, he smiles at me, and I know we can build a future just on that."

Rue wasn't convinced, but refrained from arguing any further. Instead, she reached for the other girl's arm and curled hers around it with a sigh.

* * *

Fakir side-eyed Prince Siegfried with ferocity when he felt another jab of his bony elbow into his own side.  _Yes,_ Ahiru was beautiful-he'd never seen her so made-up and polished before. It hardly mattered what she looked like or what form she took, but he was a man-he'd be a fool not to admit that she was quite a sight, with her long, red hair loose and flowing and the slight coloring of her lips fitting and subtle.

At this point in the day, he was sure he'd been bruised effectively.

He was the target of significant glances from Prince Siegfried and Rue's suspicious stares whenever he so much as brushed Ahiru's hand. He was sharply reminded of why he detested public displays of affection-Ahiru didn't mind at all, it seemed, but the attention, positive or negative, made him squirm. He could handle Rue's barely-hidden disapproval, but Prince Siegfried's romantic comments and quips about love and marriage, flustering Ahiru and driving him to complete silence? That was a different story.

Thankfully, Ahiru's constant use of the wrong fork or talking with her mouth full attracted more of Rue's attention and admonishment. He could fend off the prince's playful one-liners without the added distraction of his princess's sharp remarks.

Double-dates were a battlefield. Ahiru wasn't aware of it, but she was helping him to divide and conquer.

It carried on that way. Finally, they'd ventured to a gorgeous lake upon which they could row out into the waters, the prince and princess in one boat and their companions in the other. Thankfully, Rue decided, she had her prince to herself for the moment, and his full affection was upon her instead of his happiness for their friends in the other boat.

The prince ceased rowing as they settled to a stop, floating in the center of the lake as the sun began to set, the skies a pretty pink and purple and the blues disappearing into the distance. He took her hands in his, kissing them sweetly. Rue blushed daintily. "My prince ..."

"H-Hold still-!"

"Faki-QUA!"

 _SPLASH_!

The moment was broken and the prince and princess jerked their heads toward the chaos. The boat had toppled over, and their companions were splashing through the waters, slowly making their way to the nearby dock. All the while, they heard their sputtering, bantering back and forth and tossing the blame every which way. Prince Siegfried's first instinct was to dive in and help, but he stopped when he realized that the situation, though unexpected and oddly amusing, was under control.

Rue only rubbed her temples with a sigh.

The prince settled back down in his seat on the boat, watching the two with his princess. Though Fakir continued to insist on Ahiru's idiocy and clumsiness, he hefted himself onto the dock and helped her up as well with protectiveness and tenderness.

"S-Stop calling me-an i-idiot!"

"Great, now you're sh-shivering. W-We'd better head back." Fakir removed his deep, blue cloak and wrapped it around Ahiru's shoulders, rubbing her arms gently to give her more heat and ignoring his own chilled form. He looked over his shoulder to the prince's boat and called out, "We're going to the castle. D-Don't worry about us."

And though they continued to verbally jab at one another, the closeness with which Fakir held Ahiru, and the way she leaned on him for warmth and support, spoke far more than their minor argument.

As they disappeared, Rue looked down at her lap. "... I think I understand, now, why she chose him of all people."

Prince Siegfried chuckled, reaching for her hands again. "Indeed." With a smile, he pulled her in, pressing his lips to hers.


	2. Lazy Sunday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For amissapanda: a lazy Sunday, any characters.

Sundays were the most awkward for Fakir to get used to, even so many months after the story had ended. In fact, it only got worse.

Before, he would spend his weekdays focused on school, dance, and writing. On the weekends, he would spend his time with his favorite little duck out on her lake, writing as she bobbed along the surface of the clear water. But since the day he had granted her her own special ending-the day she became a girl again-his Sundays were ... rather empty.

Ahiru was surprisingly social. She had many friends and people across town who enjoyed her company. He didn't mind; rather, he enjoyed her happiness greatly and encouraged her to experience the world as she saw fit.

He was her best friend, though, and she dedicated the whole of her Saturdays to him alone, and Sundays she would spend with her other friends.

So, his Sundays were empty.

On this particular Sunday, he found his way to the library, silently sitting down at one of the tables. In the corner of his eye, he caught the familiar glint of light reflecting off of Autor's glasses, and he nodded in his cousin's direction in a formal greeting. The library was empty aside from Autor and himself, as it usually was on a Sunday such as this.

And he tried to write. The duck-feather quill in his hand wiggled as he fiddled with the tip, the ink swirling and curling into a nonsensical shape on the paper. Maybe he was just feeling lazy on this day, his mind unusually unfocused and his expression loose and calm. For once, his lack of productivity didn't bother him.

Then, the library doors opened, and strong footsteps echoed throughout the room. The steps made a beeline for Fakir, stopping a mere two feet away from his seated position, hunched over his scribbles on the library table. Even Autor looked up from his book, adjusting his glasses as he scrutinized what was happening.

Fakir looked up and raised an eyebrow at the gruff, blond young man. He stared down at Fakir with an intense, almost fearfully angry, expression.

With a low voice, the blond pointed his thick finger right at Fakir's face. "... Teach me about romance!"

"... What."

Suddenly, Autor was at Fakir's side as well, staring at the blond man with a mocking, smug smirk. "You want  _Fakir_  to teach you about romance."

Fakir glanced between the both of them, looking as bewildered as he allowed himself to look. He opened his mouth, but nothing could come out. Who was this guy, and what could've  _possibly_ possessed him to-?

"You are Fakir. In the ballet division? Right? I am Lysander." For all his appearances, the young man was all sorts of flustered and uncertain. "Women like you. All over school, they like you. And Hermia's birthday is coming up. I want to be romantic!" He sat in the seat across from Fakir's, burying his face in his hands. "I made her many sculptures, because that's all I know how to do. But I want to do something different for her! Teach me how ... please."

The green-eyed writer merely stared at him. And then Autor, his grin as sly as it ever could be, sat in the chair beside Fakir. "Fakir can hardly handle his own emotions; he can be of little help to you." Fakir made no protest to this. "I, on the other hand, know a thing or two about women."

"You?" Lysander scratched his head, fighting down his blush. "I've never seen you around a woman at all."

Autor stiffened, expression growing harsh. "I certainly know more than-!"

Fakir tried to stand, gathering his belongings and trying to hide his discomfort. This was not how he wanted to spend his Sunday morning. "Look, sorry, you've got the wrong guy. I'm not one to talk to about this."

"Please! Just ... you are my only hope!" Lysander stood up once more, his face red and looking as if it might've popped at any moment.

But what did Fakir know about  _romance_? His stories, while happy in their endings and sensitive to the needs of the characters within, rarely had any romance. He swallowed, trying not to think about the little redhead girl he knew so well. "... Autor would be better suited to this." Not that he knew of any women in his cousin's life-likely, Autor's experience probably derived from some book in this very library.

"... Ah. If you're sure."

"Firstly," Autor interjected, "get the clay out from under your fingernails; it's unsightly."

Lysander scrutinized his nails critically as Fakir continued to pack his things. If Autor wanted to be the know-it-all on the matter, more power to him. Fakir didn't want to have anything to do with it, and he had no sense of romantic things or birthdays or women or Ahiru ...

Suddenly, he really just wanted to go home and spend a quiet Sunday all alone with no one to bother him. He could maybe write a little, or plan something for the coming Saturday in which Ahiru would be spending time with him ...

But right as he opened the library door, a  _bull_  charged by, ridden by a male student with flowing, purple hair rambling in a foreign language and surrounded in a flurry of rose petals.

Lysander spoke up first. "Maybe I should ask-"

"No," they both commanded.

 


	3. Two Gems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A personal prompt! Ahiru is changed back into a girl--Fakir isolates himself from her.

Ahiru sat at the edge of the dock, bare feet dangling from beneath the cloud of skirt and petticoat.  The rather nice dress—which Raetsel had been so kind enough to allow her to borrow for the time being—looked so out of place when the duck-turned-girl was slumped over, her chin resting on her knees and her expression forlorn.

She looked a little older now.  It had been a couple years since the story ended.  And three days ago, she turned back into a girl.

No one knew how it happened.  She had been a duck one moment—curled up in Fakir’s arm and blinking up at him as he wrote a quaint happy story of a girl who sent love letters and a young man who loved to sculpt—and then she had been sprawled out on his lap, with limbs too long, her skin too warm, her body too bare.

They fell into the lake with flustered yelps following after the loud splash.

For the past three days, Fakir isolated himself from her, ignoring her and pushing her away.  He was in the library all hours of the day, leaving her to explore Kinkan on her own as she used to.

She made new— _old_ —friends, and Pique and Lilie didn’t know why it had been so natural to have her stand between them like that.  Ebine found her charming and oddly familiar.  Ahiru was welcomed wherever she went, and no one knew—or questioned—why.

The only one who didn’t seem happy to see her was Fakir himself.  In fact, he seemed upset, and it made her question if she  _should’ve_  been unhappy to be a girl again.

Was it fair of him to make her feel guilty?  Should she stop enjoying herself?  Should she wish to return to her tiny form, floating on the lake and living quietly without dancing, without speaking …

It was better to be what she was—to be a duck.  That was what he said in the Lake of Despair.

Maybe Fakir preferred her as a duck.  Maybe she was wrong for wanting to stay this way, as inexplicable as it was.  There was no heartshard, there was no explanation.

Even if everyone else was around, and she was able to dance and talk to everyone, she felt lonelier than ever before.  Lost.  Was becoming a girl again worth losing her best friend?  Worth losing the one person who made her feel stronger?

She wrapped her arms around her shoulders and swung her legs, burying her face in her skirts, listening to the sounds of water rippling and birds chirping and her heart breaking.

"… Hey, moron."

Ahiru lifted her head a bit when she heard his quiet voice and felt the (familiar, warm) touch of his hand on her head, ruffling her hair.  She turned to look at him, still hunched over.

He looked weary.  But not angry.  And there was a big red mark marring his left cheek.  There was something in his eyes then—she was hard-pressed to identify what it was.

"… Hi."  She sat up fully, staring at his reddened cheek.  "W-What happened there?" Ahiru reached up with her hand (not a wing) and pressed her fingers to his skin.

They both blushed.

"Karon hit me."

"Eh—?!  Why?!"

"I deserved it."

She blinked, eyes owlish and wide as she stared at him with concern.  But she felt happy, too, because he was talking to her, and he didn’t seem angry.  And his hand that was on her head lowered to rest on the small of her back.  She found it comforting and sweet.

Her heart raced.  ”What happened?”

Fakir, after a moment, reached up with his free hand to take hers away from his face.  And once again, her heart leaped.  The last time they held hands …

“ _I will stay by your side forever.”_

Ahiru’s hand clenched around his.  They held tightly to one another, drawing strength.

Fakir spoke again.  ”… I was afraid, Ahiru.  I haven’t changed—I let fear take over and cloud everything all over again.”

Somehow, she found herself leaning in to rest her chin on his shoulder.  It was different as a girl than as a duck.  It was different.  It was better.  ”Afraid?  Of what?”

"Of this."  He lifted her hand in his, staring down at her fingers, her arms, her freckled nose, her wide eyes, her red hair.  "I went to the library.  Read everything I could.  I don’t know  _how_  you changed into a girl again.  I don’t know if it was something I did, or something someone  _else_  did.  I was afraid we were going to go back to how things were when we were caged by the story.  I didn’t want to be like him, and I didn’t want anyone else like him to show up.”

He leaned in, letting his forehead rest against her own.  And her chest warmed at the sensation and his words.

"Most of all, Ahiru, I was afraid of being happy to see you like this." His hand tightened its hold around her, and he brought his arm up to curl around her shoulders.  She felt into the hold easily, melting against his chest and letting her eyes fall shut.  She had grown accustomed to letting him hold her close as a duck.  But  _this_  …

Ahiru didn’t even know she had been waiting for this.

"I was afraid to let myself accept fate again.  To accept you like this without knowing how or why.  So I lied to myself—forced myself to stay away, figure out what happened and how to undo whatever magic caused this."

She could hear his heartbeat against his chest, and she nuzzled into his warmth, curling her other arm around him.  Fakir’s head rested against the top of her own.  Their joined hands stayed between them both.

That was why he couldn’t even look at her these past few days.

She understood.  She … didn’t want to get her hopes up either.  ”D-Don’t—” she began, her mumbles quivering with the threat of tears, “Don’t p-push me away though!  We can figure it out together!  I … I thought you were mad about it and I felt really lonely even if everyone was talking to me and I was a girl—I missed them all, but it doesn’t feel right without you there, too!”

They held to each other, and she felt a warm sensation against her forehead.  Fakir pressed a sweet kiss there.  ”Yeah.  I was afraid.  And so I left you alone.  I’m sorry.  I guess I’m the one who’s the moron this time.”

She laughed then, tears falling.  ”G-Guess so!”

Whatever magic caused this transformation—whether it was Fakir, or another spinner, or Drosselmeyer’s return—they vowed to face it together.

-

_Two gems that are one._


	4. Costume Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Personal prompt, AU - College production of Phantom of the Opera is underway at Kinkan University. Rue is Christine, Mytho is Raoul, Fakir is The Phantom, and Ahiru is Meg.
> 
> Ahiru is in charge of helping Fakir do a quick costume change in one of the wings of the stage.

Ahiru was waiting for him offstage in the east wing, the cape draped over her shoulder, his vest in her arms, and the hat dangling from her fingertips.

It had taken many, many dress rehearsals for them to get it just right.  Often, Fakir would miss his cue because Ahiru just  _couldn’t_  seem to button his vest properly, or drape his cape the right way, or keep his hat so it didn’t roll out and onto the stage itself.  It frequently ended with the two of them bickering and the director sighing in frustration.  And no one else was available on that side of the stage between those particular scenes  _except_  for the one who played Meg Giry.

That was the problem with quick, offstage costume changes for a man who liked things  _his own way_ and a young lady who fumbled when she was in a rush.

But after much time and practice, they finally got the hang of it.  As long as he stood still and allowed her to do her duties without chastising her, she could focus enough and do a pretty decent job.

He grew used to letting her fasten his vest from the bottom to the top, with small, but deft fingertips.  She grew used to the way his chest rose and fell with every button.  He was now familiar with her arms encircling his shoulders with the clasp of the cape, himself having to bend down a bit so she could reach around him with her tiny frame.  She was now familiar with the broadness of his torso, and the way it felt natural to meet him halfway with her tiptoes.  And when she lifted herself up to place his hat upon his head, they’d always meet eyes, green and blue clashing in the darkness backstage.

Weeks later, it was opening night.

They’d done this many, many times before.  He would finish his solo and rush offstage, allowing Rue and Mytho to capture the audience’s attention.

It was all routine, even if Ahiru’s heart was pounding in her chest— _this was a real performance, the audience was right there, we couldn’t mess up now!_ —she was determined to not fail the Phantom.

She shifted in her own lacy, petticoat-stuffed, frill-sack of a costume that Meg was supposed to wear and blew some of her bangs out of the way.  Any second now, the Phantom would sweep offstage with all the mystery and intrigue he was supposed to incite in the audience, and then Fakir would make a beeline for her with a frown and a look that said, “ _Don’t drop anything this time._ ”

Well, she  _wouldn’t_.

But something was different tonight.  Fakir was half-masked as he was supposed to be, but as he slipped into the east wing, he didn’t frown or give her that warning stare.

Still, Ahiru acted, making haste with practiced hands.

But the adrenaline pumped through her veins.  Her hands shook, so she pressed them against his chest firmly, her fingers lingering as she buttoned his vest up.  She blushed, visible even through the thick make-up.  Fakir’s chest heaved heavily—moreso than usual.  Then she lifted herself to her toes, wrapping her quivering arms around his shoulders as he lowered himself to meet her.  His breath fanned over her neck and she almost had to lean against him fully to stop from collapsing then and there.

She dropped the hat as Rue and Mytho’s duet swelled through the air, echoing backstage.

Fakir didn’t let her pick it up immediately.  Instead, he gripped her fabric-covered shoulders with gloved hands, green eyes almost begging her even from behind his half-mask.  With a giddy sigh, she smiled and let him push her back into the curtains, the two lost in the draped fabric.

Miraculously, Fakir didn’t miss his cue.  But they found out later from a very grouchy Rue, an exasperated director, and an incredibly amused Mytho that both their mics were still on.


	5. Speaking Easy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drabble for 1920s AU inspired by blueberryhope’s art on tumblr.

The joint was empty.  Partygoers didn’t really show up during typical worknights.  It was all quiet, too–no poker, no music, no nothing.  And the place was a dump, really, with bullet holes all along the bar and chairs all broken up.  They’d only gotten to cleaning up the broken glass earlier that day.

But she was all dolled up anyway, looking her best–or as best as she could, really.  Tonight was one of those important sorts.  Sure, it wasn’t much of a shindig (no one was even here), but  _he_  was there, and wasn’t that all that mattered?

Ahiru fiddled idly with the tassels of her headpiece.  He was sitting two bar stools away from her, taking a long drag from his cigarette before tapping the ash into the metal ashtray on the counter.

She didn’t look at him just yet, though they both knew why they were there.

It was so strange.  Just a few short months ago, she thought Mytho was the Real McCoy.  She’d been stuck on him for a while, even if, from the bottom of her heart, she knew he always had eyes for someone else.

Then she danced into Fakir’s table and spilled some hooch on his trousers.

Two months later, she was positively goofy for the guy.

When he spoke, she knew that he had the tip of his ciggy tucked between his lips still, because his words were slightly muffled.  “I’m just gonna level with ya.  Got it?”

Her heart sunk and she nodded, folding her hands together and twiddling her thumbs.  She knew what he was going to say.

“We–this can’t happen, baby.”

Ahiru winced, remembering last weekend, when they’d been cutting a rug amidst the chaos and noise of the crowded speakeasy, Autor on the piano and singing a sweet, sweet ditty–she had Fakir’s hat in her hand and he sauntered up to her all swell and handsome and the like.  He smiled and curled an arm around his adorable little bird.

He was distracted.  Didn’t know that Raven’s gang had been out to bump off Mytho that very night.  There was suddenly a shower of bullets, and she felt herself be lugged off, shoved into the secret entrance behind the bar before she could get hurt.  “ _Scram_!” Fakir commanded, pushing her through the trapdoor after the other screaming patrons before grabbing his tommy gun and joining Autor, Lysander, and Mytho behind the counter.

Thankfully, the losses were on Raven’s side, but the damage had been done.

Ahiru bit her lip, trying to ignore the sting of tears.  “But I–Fakir–I turned out just fine.”

“Maybe not next time.”  He exhaled slowly, his smoke clouding her vision.  “We don’t know from nothing on when they’ll be back–and they  _will_  be back.  And I don’t want you here when they are.”

She supposed that he could’ve had any dame he wanted–prettier than she was.  Maybe that was why … 

Ahiru would rather that he were honest.  “If you don’t like me anymore …”

“That’s  _not–_!”  He paused, and she finally glanced up.  His hat and gloves were off, sitting beside the ashtray.  He ran his hand through his hair, and it was then that she saw just how roughed-up he might’ve felt.

He couldn’t meet her eyes.  He snuffed out the ciggy in the middle of the ashtray, leaving the butt there.  “Don’t go thinkin’ anything stupid.”

Fakir lifted his gaze finally, green eyes swimming with something strange.  She blushed, because she could see how he felt.  He was an absolute sap for her, as Autor had put it.  She understood what Fakir was trying to say without him saying it.

_I can’t protect you.  This isn’t the kinda life I want for us, baby.  You need to be safe._

Her expression hardened and she hopped off the stool, only to sit again on the one next to his.  Then, without preamble or warning, she took his suspenders in each hand, tugging him closer.

Fakir’s eyes widened, but he made no move to stop her.  “Ahiru, what–?”

“Baby,“ she interrupted, adoringly brushing her nose against his.  He smelled of ciggy smoke and liquor.  She smiled.  “Ya don’t get to tell me what to do.”

Ahiru brought her lips to his, cashing that check that he didn’t know he owed her.


End file.
